


tell them this love hasn't changed me at all

by kagome_angel



Category: K (Anime)
Genre: All Kinds of Sad, Canonical Character Death, Cathartic Maybe, Dancing with Ghosts, Explicit Language, Grab your tissues, I Will Go Down With This Ship, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, M/M, SaruMi if You Tilt Your Head and Squint, They Miss Him So Much, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, the five stages of grief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-16 05:07:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13047114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kagome_angel/pseuds/kagome_angel
Summary: Five stages of grief, and five people affected by the loss of a man they love.





	tell them this love hasn't changed me at all

**Author's Note:**

> This idea wouldn't leave me alone, and so here you have this. I hope, even though it's sad, that you will enjoy it!

**I. Denial**   
_Denial is the worst kind of lie… because it is the lie you tell yourself. -- Michelle A. Homme_

She dreams of him, often. When she dreams, he’s alive, healthy, vibrant, and his aura is so _warm_ , just as warm as it always was. Inviting. Which is ironic, because those who didn’t know the _real_ Mikoto only saw him as a vicious, acerbic man with no direction in life—a person that left nothing but destruction behind him.

Perhaps he could be that way; it’s only fitting for a king of the Red Clan. It was and was _not_ who Mikoto Suoh was, though.

He had been a protector. A man who’d used his massive amount of power to stand up for what he’d believed in. He’d been a man who had wanted to see justice served for what had happened to his _family_. A man who’d tried to do right by those he loved.

He had, in Anna’s eyes.

He smiles at her when she dreams of him. He smiles like there’s no need to worry, like the things that had plagued him when he was alive can’t touch him here, and she supposes that they can’t. He touches her hand and she feels _life_ where there is none, and denial is the worst kind of fallacy, the worst defense mechanism in existence. Because what happens when you open your eyes? Everything comes crashing down, again and again.

(Sometimes she wishes she could stay asleep forever.)

“You can’t,” he tells her, and she ducks her head, hiding her eyes, unable to bring herself to look at him. She should feel ashamed for even thinking such a thing, and she _is_ , but mostly it’s just the truth and why should she be ashamed of how she’s feeling? How she’s _felt_ , for every moment that’s stretched on into forever since his death.

(And yet it feels like only yesterday.)

“You have to do what I can’t,” he continues, and his voice is just as gentle as his touch. “You’re going to be a magnificent king, you know.”

“Not like you,” she whispers, and she can feel the tears spill over before she even has a hope of stopping them.

He tilts her head up, fingers beneath her chin, and he tenderly wipes the tears away. “That’s the point,” he says. “You’re going to be _better_.”

She can feel her aura building. She can feel it thrumming beneath her skin, a river threatening to demolish the dam that’s barely keeping it in check. It will emerge from her just as her tears had; there will be no stopping it. His death had been and will be her _becoming_ , and it’s going to tear her apart, she knows it.

(It already has.)

“You’re going to be just fine,” he tells her, and she does and does not believe it. She believes it because it’s Mikoto. She doesn’t believe it because it _isn’t_ Mikoto. She’s talking to a dream. A delusion. A ghost. 

But it feels so nice to have him beside her again, even if only just for a moment.

She nods and then she shakes her head and there are more tears. “I miss you.”

“And I miss you,” he whispers in return. “But it’s time to wake up now. You have work to do, Little One.”

Anna takes a steadying breath and she opens her eyes; a weight settles instantly in her chest and in the pit of her stomach as everything begins to fall back into place.

Her subconscious offers her brief reprieve, but at the same time, once she’s awake, she has to deal with the repercussions of losing him, all over again.

Reality is a cruel thing, and in the end it will not be denied.

(No matter how hard she tries to ignore it, to forget it, to pretend that he’s just around the corner.

“ _The fire in me is the fire in you_ ,” he’d told her

But it isn’t the same. It isn’t warm, like Mikoto.

The empty space beside her is cold.)

**II. Anger**   
_In the days that follow, I discover that anger is easier to handle than grief. – Emily Griffin_

Fushimi sits in the darkness and he rubs at an old scar—a once-upon-a-time sign that he was a member of the Red Clan. 

Fushimi hasn’t been a member of HOMRA for some time. However, that doesn’t stop the sting. Doesn’t stop him from wanting to get the hell out of here and go somewhere else, either. He knows where he is needed ( _wanted_ might be a different story, entirely, but).  
In the wake of the Red King’s death, Fushimi is _angry_.

He is angry because of the (former) Red King’s proclivity to chase power and create havoc in his wake. He is angry because Mikoto could have stepped back and he refused to do so. He’s angry because Mikoto had done what he’d believed in his heart to be _right_ ; he’d done it _knowing_ that he wouldn’t make it out alive.

Fushimi is _livid_. Isn’t it funny how it’s only after Mikoto is dead that Fushimi is able to admit (even if only to himself) that he possesses a modicum of respect for the off-the-rails king that he’d previously only feared and envied. 

Quite startling to realize, post-mortem, that he and Mikoto had had some common ground.

He’s angry because his own king is an utter mess over Mikoto’s death; he’s angry because Munakata had done what he’d done out of duty, out of the need to reduce casualties, and as a result, part of him had died right along with the Red King. Fushimi had watched it. Felt it. _Known_ it. 

Munakata has taken to locking himself in his study after work and drinking into the wee hours of the morning. He remains steadfast when it comes to his work, their mission, but once he allows himself to stop thinking about the task at hand, he instead focuses on what he’s lost, and even though they’d always fought and had seemingly never gotten along (there’s a pattern here), there had been _love_ there. Otherwise, Munakata wouldn’t be acting like he’s had to watch his entire world crumble around him.

Fushimi is angry for his king. He’s angry at the unfairness of it all.

More than anything, he’s angry with himself. He’s angry that pride is keeping him away from where he ought to be, from where he is so desperately _needed_ right now.

(He can feel it, their connection; it’s never stopped, it never will, and he knows in this moment that Misaki is falling apart in the worst way, like Munakata, but differently. Misaki has lost a brother and a leader, has lost his _king_ , and Fushimi knows exactly what it’s doing to him.)

He rubs at the scar until his skin is raw and burning.

It does nothing to ease the ache in his chest.

**III. Bargaining**   
_If I hold my breath to twenty seconds, the night won’t come. If I don’t blink. If I stand so still a fly lands on my cheek. – Jodi Picoult_

It’s funny how the bar can be bustling with activity and yet feel completely deserted when a certain person’s presence is what’s missing. There are plenty of people here tonight, and yet Kusanagi feels like he’s standing here all alone. He’s smiling at customers and he’s doing his job and making small talk, but none of it really means anything when his gaze keeps sliding to the empty seat that Mikoto used to so often plop down onto after a long day.

There are times when he catches a whiff of smoke and he thinks that he’s coming back—thinks that it’s all been some horrible nightmare, and then he realizes it’s just a customer who shares the same taste in cigarettes as Mikoto, and Kusanagi’s happy little fantasy shatters and Mikoto is _dead_ and there’s no coming back from that. 

It doesn’t stop him from hoping. From making deals with the devil in the back of his mind. From pouring Mikoto’s favorite alcohol night after night and waiting for him to come have a seat and enjoy it. 

He comes undone a little, every night since Mikoto’s passing. Every night that he pours untouched alcohol out of an untouched glass. 

He isn’t in denial. He really isn’t. Logically, he knows that his best friend is gone and that Anna has taken over in his stead. She will be magnificent, because she learned from the best. Kusanagi doesn’t doubt this in the slightest. However… something (someone) is missing and always will be, and that absence has caused a gaping hole in their clan as a whole. They are stronger now, yes, because they have to be. But they are also broken.

(That’s what happens with a loss as huge as this.)

He knows that Mikoto is gone. He knows that Mikoto isn’t coming back. He knows that he would do anything to reverse this. He knows—

_You were the best king we could have asked for._

There are nights when Kusanagi would give absolutely anything to see their former king slink through the door and sit down at his usual place. Anything.

He stands behind the bar, waiting for what he knows will never come.

The door doesn’t open.

The drink remains untouched.

(Of course, it doesn’t. And of course, it does.)

**IV. Depression**   
_There are wounds that never show on the body that are deeper and more hurtful than anything that bleeds. – Laurell K. Hamilton_

Yata is no stranger to trouble—he’s always found it, or it’s always found him, quite easily. He supposes that those sort of tendencies alone could give him a bad reputation, but then again his reputation has never been in question when it comes to those who matter most to him.

He isn’t looking for trouble tonight, exactly. But he welcomes it. Lately, he’ll take anything that comes his way—anything that might distract him for a moment from his grief.

Trouble comes to him in the form of a prior comrade. Partner. Friend. More than all of that and then some.

Maybe it isn’t quite fair to say that trouble’s found him tonight. It’s true that Yata has wandered into Blue territory, but it’s almost as if Fushimi knew he would be here. Knew to come find him.

Perhaps that is the highest truth there is, in this moment. 

Yata will take it. Beggars can’t be choosers after all, can they?

(Nevermind that he would choose this over and over again. Nevermind that he always does, even when he shouldn’t.)

“What’re you doing here, Misaki?” Fushimi asks, and there isn’t even a hint of condescension in his tone; in its place are exhaustion and something suspiciously like surprise. 

_What_ , indeed.

He can’t vocalize the why—not the _real_ ‘why’. It doesn’t matter, though, because he gives himself away the instant he touches the mark near his left clavicle; it’s the symbol of his clan, his family. It _used_ to be further proof of his partnership with Fushimi.

But then that damn monkey had gone and ruined all of that, hadn’t he?

Yata is hurting, and he knows that being here with Fushimi will only hurt him more in the long run, but here he is, unmoving, glaring at Fushimi without responding. He supposes the lack of an answer is an answer in its own right as he stands there, watching Fushimi watch him, their stances mirrored. The fact that Fushimi is standing right in front of him, touching the scar that he created while cutting ties with the Red Clan (with _Yata_ ), hits him hard. It breaks his heart and it makes him immeasurably _angry_.

The air is thick with loss, with super-charged emotions that demand an out. That ‘out’ comes in the form of a fist heading straight for Fushimi’s face.

He dodges it easily, which isn’t surprising. He’s always had excellent reflexes, and he’s always been ridiculously observant, and Yata isn’t exactly at the top of his game at the moment.

“What are you doing?” Fushimi repeats, fingers circling Yata’s wrists (when had that happened?), keeping him from attempting another punch. Yata doesn’t fight him and doesn’t fucking understand why. They should be circling each other like a pair of rabid dogs at this point (it’s their normal now, after all), not breathing heavily for no reason at all, frozen and unable to act.

Saruhiko’s touch _burns_ , and isn’t that ironic?

Yata’s knees buckle and he lets them, lets himself be lowered slowly to the ground by a person he shouldn’t trust ever again with anything, much less with _this_. 

Fushimi puts a little distance between them once they’re both on the ground but he doesn’t go far. They sit in silence and they eye each other warily, neither talking nor making a move to attack. They sit and Yata waits. For something. For nothing. For the screaming in his mind to stop. For the sharp ache in his chest to fade.  
If things were different, there wouldn’t be this huge rift between them.

There’s no going back, though, is there? If anything, the events of late have cemented the fact that the past can’t be changed. What is, is. What was… will never be again.

“He’s gone,” he mumbles aloud, and maybe he imagines Saruhiko’s features softening, just a little. Fingers twitch minutely, as if resisting the urge to touch.

Maybe Yata’s losing it.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing here.

( _I need you_.)

(Isn’t it funny how, even now, that damn monkey understands him better than anyone, even, _especially_ , in the silence.)

Had things been different….

Had things been different, well, Mikoto would still be here, wouldn’t he.

And he and Fushimi wouldn’t be sitting here like this at all.

**V. Acceptance**   
_Acceptance is a small quiet room. – Cheryl Strayed_

Munakata has accepted that Mikoto is gone. He’s accepted that he’ll never again hear the teasing lilt of that well-known, gravelly voice. He has accepted that he’ll never fight or fuck that enigmatic, incredible, impossible man ever again. He’s accepted that he will never, ever be able to get Mikoto’s blood off of his hands.

(It’s the latter that really, really messes him up.)

He’s taken to drinking in his office after work—bad habit, and he knows he ought to be doing this at home instead, but he somehow feels even more alone at home, in his empty house. At least SCEPTER 4’s headquarters thrums with energy long after the rest of his clansmen have gone home. It doesn’t make sense, he knows; he’s as alone here right now as he would be anywhere (he always feels alone these days, even when he isn’t), now that his two babysitters have left him for the evening.

(Seri worries about him, but she’s learned better than to try to dissuade him when he goes on these miniature self-destructive benders of his; she had only frowned slightly as she bid him goodnight before leaving. She’s getting better at hiding her disapproval.

Fushimi, on the other hand, had simply given him this pitying, _knowing_ look and shut the door quietly without breathing a word.

That Fushimi has always been too smart for his own good, except for when it comes to his own feelings—something he and Munakata have in common. Between the two of them, they’ve got the skills of compartmentalization and ignorance in _spades_.)

He’s on his fourth glass when he hears the words, “You need to go home,” and it isn’t Mikoto. It _isn’t_ , but the voice is the same and it’s more a command than a suggestion, and Mikoto always did like to wrestle for control ( _both_ of them did). 

If Reisi were smart he would listen, but he isn’t, and so he doesn’t. He tips the glass back, downing the rest of the liquid contained within, and it burns all the way down (like Mikoto, like his hands, like his mouth).

He pours himself another glass, and he stays right where he is. 

He deflects; he projects. “You should have listened to me,” he says aloud, to nothing and no-one except himself. He means, of course, that Mikoto should have listened to him all of those times he tried to convince him to _slow down_ , to _stop_ , to pay attention to what all that unchecked power was doing to him, to _them_.

“Since when have I _ever_ listened to you outside of the bedroom?” The question is a low, teasing drawl, and entirely accurate. Suoh had only followed orders and been utterly open to suggestion when they’d been in the middle of sex—everything else was done on his own terms.

It was true to who he was.

Munakata is finishing his fifth glass when he murmurs, “I’m sorry.”

The reply is solemn, soft, gentle: “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

And he knows he’s losing it; he _knows_ he is, because that sounds nothing like Mikoto; it isn’t something he would say. It _isn’t_. 

He _is_ sorry. He will _always_ be sorry; it’s never going to be okay, the fact that he’d done what he’d done, partly out of duty and partly out of some twisted version of mercy. He’d been quick about it, he’d made sure Mikoto wouldn’t suffer, and yet Munakata hadn’t thought what it would mean for himself in that moment, hadn’t let himself think about it. He hadn’t known that Mikoto’s inevitable death would lead to Munakata ripping his own heart out every night and drinking himself into a stupor at least every other night thereafter. 

(There will never be a night in which he doesn’t close his eyes and see that bright flash of red and those curiously demanding amber eyes. There will never be a night in which he doesn’t chase after lips that he won’t ever touch again. Guilt follows longing and they go round and round, much like he and Mikoto always had.)

_Acceptance_ weighs heavily on his shoulders. Yes, he’s accepted the reality of all of this. Otherwise, it wouldn’t hurt so fucking much, would it?

The gentle breath (that isn’t there) against the back of his neck makes him close his eyes and sigh. He’s drunk enough that it’s easy to imagine a calloused, yet tender, touch. “You gotta stop dancing with my ghost.”

The words ring in his ears and damn it all, if they don’t sound _exactly_ like something that smart-ass bastard would say. 

Reisi would be smart to heed them. He knows he needs to stop _doing this_ to himself.

And yet… the music hasn’t stopped playing, and his feet don’t want to stop moving.

~END~

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading. Of course SaruMi had to make a bit of an appearance, too. :D


End file.
